Picture this. I’ve just come away from commenting on a post about how Doms in BDSM stories are often portrayed as bullies. I’ve said what I truly believe -- poured my emotions about these stories into the comment. I’ve said how I strive to make the Doms in my stories real men who are willing to admit their mistakes, men who care for their partners, men who can love.

So an hour or two later I’ve penned a couple of thousand more words of Steel Dominance and I get up to stretch, feeling quite pleased. But my conscious subconscious won’t leave me alone. Not the true deep down, I ain’t saying anything intelligible subconscious but the part of me that pokes me endlessly when something in a story is wrong. Then when I ignore it, next morning it drags out a baseball bat to add to the torture and emphasize its point.

Finally, head in hands (maybe because of that baseball bat), I admit to myself that I’ve done it again -- written an arrogant prick into the story.

Aarghhhh!

Why does this happen? I try so hard to make them somebody I’d love to wake up next to, or even better, be woken up by, then licked by, kissed by…you get the picture. But, instead of a man momma would be proud of, I get a man who’s likely to sexually molest momma if she happens to be good-looking and spritely enough.

I hate arrogant pricks, don’t I?

But then again 40 percent of women have rape fantasies and when you consider that, who but an arrogant prick is going to fulfill that fantasy? I don’t write rape of course, or I don’t aim to. Yet when these guys arrive, that is what the scene often reminds me of -- sexual assault. A reader I’ve emailed back and forth with, who also writes, told me one of the flaws in her writing is that she’s always wanting the big climactic events to happen SOON. Well that’s how I am with the sex scenes sometimes. So I end up with men who’d be at home on the hit parade down at the police station.

My naughty side tends to sneak these guys past me by making sure the women don’t protest about the arrogant pricks’ sexual advances. So now, not only do I have a man who makes Jack the Ripper look gorgeous, I have a female doormat.

What do I do with these imposters who creep into my stories? I delete them. I do the metaphorical equivalent of whacking them over the head with a shovel (my baseball bat is taken), toppling them into a crate, and nailing the lid shut. Then I bury them somewhere out back inside my mind.

Other authors have plot bunnies hopping about nibbling pseudo grass and bobbing their tails. I have a graveyard of arrogant pricks. I’m not sure if they make good fertilizer or not, but I’m trying. And if you, like me, just had a terribly rude image pop into your head, you have a dirty mind. Welcome to the club. Pull up a seat, and grab a shovel -- the merlot and chardonnay and beer are in the fridge. So throw a plot bunny on the BBQ and get comfy. Another one of those dickheads will wander by soon and we can get busy serial shoveling.

Yes, indeedy. Yesterday my finger almost fell off. I gained a few followers and may have sold three or four books but I’m thinking tweetying is not my natural state. I feel like I’ve been scattering breadcrumbs for the pigeons and gained a few pigeons when all I really wanted was to sit down on the park bench, admire the clouds, and eat my lunch. Another ounce of promo and my refried brain will sizzle out my earholes.

This post was to be used for promo but my co-writer Leia Shaw (write that down so you know who else to avoid) yes, Leia, told me I’d had way too much coffee. It’s hard to look sideways at someone in an email, but she managed.

Ready? Steady? Fall over.

One of the first things we learn as a writer is to Write What You Know. This is an unwritten law of writing that’s been handed down from above eons ago. Well, maybe it is written, like here, but unwritten sounds sooo much better.

So, ahem, what if we don’t know something that we need to write? If you are like me and write Scfi or fantasy or steampunk BDSM (which is retro-scifi, pseudo-Victorian fantasy with lots of fetish clothes and diabolical machinery for making the heroine feel really really glowy. This is a family post, see, so I didn’t say ‘for giving her mind-blowing orgasms’)

I digress. In brackets, but still, digressing was done.

Where was I? Research. Well, if you write fantasy, get kidnapped by an alien or something. Okay? Good. It worked for me last month. You know what they say about aliens and probes? Well, these guys, they really did have green skin.

If you write real sex with people who have all the normal human bits – I’m not talking tentacles, or double dicks or nano-enhanced sex here...if you write real, then your best alternative is to research. Maybe even do it? Maybe. I mean how hard can it be to try out some of the things you find on the net?

This is how I found out that erotic writers need the sexual equipment of a rhinoceros. We need to be tough, peoples. Man up. Or woman up…which does sound rather naughty, but it’s true.

So – suggested net activity – letting your partner apply a clamp to one’s clit then string the cord attached to a swivel thingy on the ceiling and thence to a spot on the floor…this is not for the cowardly. Don’t faint.

Did I research this one fully? Let us ask another question. Did the neighbor hear a scream in the middle of the night and then sirens? Do I have an appointment with a plastic surgeon? Am I suing Google?

The answer to those? I’ll let you guess. Research has limits for me. I have browsed many forums and threads and web pages looking for sexy shenanigans. Figging and nipple clamps and other fun stuff has swished, crawled and swung through my mind. Some of it I may have tested in the name of thoroughness. But not the first. I have come to the conclusion that sometimes being abducted and probed by aliens is far more sensible than some of the activities on the net.

Activities…on the net. Come to think of it, among those that should come with a warning is chat messaging. I have put on four kilos since I began this nefarious activity.

Chat messaging is goddamned fattening.

Yes. Where does it say that, I ask you? There MUST be calories in those letters. Four kilos! Which is why I have now started using smaller words. No longer do I call people rapscallious empty-minded lunatics. Now they are twits or idiots, or bitches if I’m in a bad mood. Ask Leia Shaw my co-author of 31 Flavors. She knows.

I’ll tell you in a month if this word diet is working.

What else has writing taught me? That using the keyboard too much makes your fingers go numb first, then your wrists, and then your arm. Getting struck by a poison dart shot by a pygmy in the jungle makes all of you go numb.

Therefore, using LOGIC, I’m sticking to using the keyboard; it’s safer than pigmy darts.

Coffee. Another activity encouraged by surfing the net. Yes, this is connected to my previous ramblings. Do not run away. Sit!

I have wondered about the mind-enhancing effects of this wonder drug, coffee. And so, I researched this too. I’ve found that drinking it seems the best way of getting it into your system. Inhaling, bathing in or injecting coffee just doesn’t do much for me.

Madness. Another crucial subject for the erotic romance writer. Am I gibbering? Can writing be bad for your sanity? This is such an important question. We need to understand that sitting by oneself in a room with only inanimate things for company and a litter of letters on the pc screen can be deleterious to your mental health. But not mine. Yours. I’m perfectly okay. Per-fect-lee SANE!

Go read a book now. You need to. Like maybe read 31 Flavors which I did not research at all. Since it’s a true story, we went by what Sidney told us, and only imagined a teensy bit. So I haven’t bought a spatula or a riding crop, nor did I ask my husband to spank me.

Truly. I wouldn’t lie to my dear readers. Have a nice day, and pardon me while I go play horsies.

A $15 gift certificate from Amazon, fuzzy pink handcuffs, and Godiva chocolates!Wow. I might go in the draw too.Sexy Confessions from Two Romance Authors -- that's Leia Shaw and me. Only I fibbed and confessed zero, nought , nuffin. Because I'm a clean-living girl. Leia, on the other hand, spilled her guts and oh my, the things that woman has done. I'm joking, slightly ;)http://www.bona-fide-reflections.com/

To end on a serious note. Stephanie, one of the early readers of 31 Flavors has sent us this beautiful comment.I just finished 31 flavors and I just wanted to say that I loved it. In a way it was kind of hard for me to read because it so closely mirrors what the last year of my life has been like. I cried my eyes out when she was drunk and said she was sorry that she was so broken..I can't tell you how many times I have felt like that. The anxiety, tears, and struggle in the book was balanced with wonderful humor and such love. It was fabulous! Thank you both for writing such a great story. :) ***Only $2.99 at Amazon also at All Romance Ebooks and at Smashwords

This book is an m/f erotic romance based on the true story of Sidney and Nick. Out now from Amazon and Smashwords. The below scene happens after they've had their first tentative adventure with BDSM. Sid texts Nick and gets a little more than she expects in his reply. ******I want more of last night and this time don’t be such a wimp with the belt. You hit like a girl.

I grin at my audacity. He doesn’t respond for quite a while and I worry I’ve gone too far then half an hour later, my text alert beeps.

A girl, huh? Just remember you asked for it. ******Buylinks: AMAZONSMASHWORDSALL ROMANCE EBOOKSThanks for stopping by to read my Six. Each week, the new listing of Six Sentence Sunday (SSS) blogs goes live at 9 a.m. EST Sunday. This is a great way to find new authors to follow or read or to get exposure for your own writing! For a list of this week's participants in the SSS blog tour, go to http://www.sixsunday.com/. Also find it by searching for #sixsunday on Twitter! If you have a Twitter account, and participate, you can add the hashtag #sixsunday to your tweets when you tweet a link to your Six Sentence Sunday post. Fun and simple!

A beautifully written and thought-provoking review of my book, 31 Flavors. Awarded Recommended read.I'm so happy to see that this book is reaching out to readers in an inspiring way. It's a book that's close to my heart too.

If you're a rabid lover of paranormal and vampires books, take a look at this free download this weekend from the writing team of Nerine Dorman and Carrie Clevenger. One wild ride.

When the vampire doubles as bass-playing musician and jack of all trades at the local drinking hole, Pale Rider, with nary a batwing or stake in sight, and his companion is a man with enough lives to challenge a cat and a fine knowledge of spells and incantations, you know you're in for some crazy no-holds barred action.

"...exciting prose that pops right off the page"

"...This is a must for vampire-rocker groupies"

"The thing most people don't tell you about vampires is that they're addictive - especially tall, muscle-bound, long-haired musician dudes like Xan Marcelles. I've read him twice now, once in Blood and Fire and once in Just My Blood Type, and now I've got a thirsty jones for some more. Xan's a sexy bad-ass laying low in a rough and tumble bar named Pale Rider in the middle of stinking nowhere. He drinks whiskey to smote his need for the blood of tasty young bar patrons, but he also plays bass in a band called Crooked Fang, cleans toilets, bounces drunks and makes egg salad sandwiches

Note to my readers - this is not the final edited version and I tweaked it a little to make a more sensible excerpt. *********He made himself not look at the bodies and the pool of blood on the rooftop behind Kaysana. Keep your shit focused. Zone them out. Zen, man, zen. Took him a few hard seconds but he managed. He had to. Their lives depended on this diversion, on it giving Holly time to find a vehicle. The difficult bit was keeping Kaysana in a mental space where she forgot.

“Last time we kissed those zombies zeroed in on us like flies to honey.” Or flies to blood.

She didn’t answer. At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, she sighed. Quivering with need already? Her smart, thinking side was clearly a long way away. He spread his fingers on her warm skin and smiled.

If not for the effects of the lust plague this ploy would never have worked. The pesky mob of zombs waiting below to rip them apart weren’t exactly love potion ingredients.

Sten pressed his palm on her nape, made her kneel, turned the leash around and around his fist until his knuckles brushed the angle of her throat and jaw. He bent down, staring at her. Her eyes went all gooey, the pupils dilating, gorgeous -- if he could’ve bottled that he would’ve.

“Let’s kiss,” he murmured.

The feel of her soft lips under his near unhinged him. Their hot breaths mingled as he explored her mouth. At first passive, then she struggled a little and tried to pull away. His hands at her neck and throat held her to him. “No,” he whispered, licking the corner of her mouth. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

Then he crushed her resistance, shoving his tongue between her lips, taking over her mouth with his while his fingers sought a hold in her hair. He turned his hand to screw those fingers into the roots, wrapping hair about each finger -- harder, tighter. When she gasped and her mouth fell open he knew he had her. He kept at her. Not until she moaned uncontrollably into his mouth did he let up, and slowly lift away.

Her eyes were shut. Her mouth was open still, air sucking in and out with little wanting gasps.

“Beautiful.” Still holding her head, he glanced over the side. Six or ten Raised Men were down there, walking about, staring up, growling, some of them backing up to see better. Not enough. He needed to crank up the effect to attract the rest. He studied Kaysana. “What are we lacking?” Her eyelids fluttered open. Such promise in those eyes. As if she expected and needed more.

Ah. Course.

“The fantasy needs to be stronger. Yes?” But she didn’t, or couldn’t answer. He’d left her lost inside her thoughts. “Let’s try something better, hotter. Trial and error.” He smiled down at her then let go of the leash and traced her lower lip with his fingers.

Gravity and the curves of her body showed his hand the way to the silky skin of her neck. He hooked his fingers under the neckline of the top and pulled it down one shoulder, then the other, making the top slide. He scooped each breast free from the top, then went down on one knee and paid homage to each nipple -- licking and sucking them until the tips hardened.

By then she had a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“No.” Yet she shivered. Her chest heaved enough that her nipple pushed in and out of his mouth. One last bite at her nipple and he straightened, grinning at the squeak he’d elicited.

“No?” He pried her hand loose, took both her wrists to her back. That alone made Kaysana arch toward him. “That’s my girl. Your mouth says no but your body says yes.”

From the sounds below, the crowd of Raised Men grew. He narrowed his eyes. It was working. With one hand clamping her wrists at the small of her back, he let the leash dangle down her front so it tapped against her mound, then reached around her buttocks and between her legs to pull the leash through her legs. A few loops about her wrists and a quick knot. There. Bound nice and firm.

The way she sank her teeth into her lip and swayed, told him she liked this. He let his hand follow the leather of the leash, across belly and all the way down to where it split her labia and sank up into her slit. Moisture leaked around the leather onto his fingers. As if he had forever to do this, he travelled his fingers up and over her little engorged clit then back along her slit to her anus, watching her reaction -- every whimper and moan and quiver.

“You’re so fucking wet already. I’d like to sit here all day teasing this clit.” He gave it a few taps and trapped it between his fingers, watched her eyelids drift half-shut and her tongue emerge between those plump lips. Kaysana made a small sound halfway between a whimper and a moan.

From the sounds, men were scrambling up the building. Five cartridges left in the shotgun at his feet. He prayed that’d be enough. Those below didn’t seem clever enough to climb well. Lucky, damn lucky, their brains were in short supply.

She so tempted him. He moved in, let his tongue find the way around the whorl of her ear, and whispered, “If I finger fuck you, do you think half the city’ll arrive?”

She blinked, swallowed, shut her eyes entirely.

“I’d like to take you here, fuck you on the roof, in front of the world.” He cupped her chin.

The whole body shudder that ran through her, rocking her chin in his hand, sent crazy signals to his groin. His balls tightened.

He turned the shotgun so the trigger was close, and resumed the kiss. His fingers went back on her clit, his thumb rocking and squeezing to bring her off. The suck and pull of his lips on hers echoed what he did below. She moaned, then her body tensed as she climaxed. He moved her so her mouth rested on his shoulder.

Damn. Fascinated he watched her every reaction as her torso undulated in waves. He thrust a finger in deeper while his thumb stayed on her clit. She bit him, screaming quietly at the back of her throat, her groin pumping onto his hand. Then she crumpled, her forehead slipping down the front of his chest.

As if he’d had been catapulted onto the roof, a man appeared -- arms outstretched, eyes alight with orange fire, his rot-blackened hands reached…then Sten’s shotgun blew him away. Blood misted the air. He screamed, spun out into mid-air, and fell.

Author

Cari Silverwood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of kinky darkness or sometimes of dark kinkiness, depending on her moods and the amount of time she's spent staring into the night. ​ ​When others are writing bad men doing bad things you may find her writing good men who accidentally on purpose fall into the abyss and come out with their morals twisted in knots.